Autodidact: (n) a self-taught person. Poet: (n) a person who writes poetry.
Autodidactpoet: (n) A blog full of thoughts from a self-taught writer.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Baby Powder

It's been a long time since I've written a poem as hard to write as this one. It came to me pretty much fully formed, so it only took me about 45 minutes to get from idea to the form you see it in now...but emotionally, it is a little more difficult. It's one of those poems that just had to be written this way, even though I'm not 100% sure I understand why it is the way it is. I'm vacillating on the title. Part of me wants to call it "Baby Powder," and another part of me wants to title it "Forgiveness." I'm not sure yet.

Anyway, this is a poem about many things, really, but was "inspired" (poor word choice, but it's the best I can come up with), by something that happened Thursday evening. I'll just copy and paste what I posted on Facebook:

"So....I just had 2 valuable lessons emphasized to me. 1. Always trust your gut. 2. Always lock the doors of your car after you get in. I went to the grocery store this evening to pick up a few things, and came out of the store around 9. Walking to my car, there were 2 young guys on cell phones walking to their car. For some reason, they made me uncomfortable, so I walked quickly to my car, unlocked it, and got in the drivers seat with my bags because I didn't want to take the time to put them in the back. I locked the doors as soon as I sat down. Less than two seconds later, the guys got to my car and tried to open the passenger side door and the rear door behind the drivers seat. Finding it locked, they knocked, laughed, and ran away. I'm sure I'll stop shaking at some point."

This was difficult on several levels, for several reasons, and it's left me in a difficult place for a few days. I'm hoping the writing of this moves me forward.

Baby Powder

If I see them again, I
will not scream.

I will not walk quickly
to my car, lock the doors, and sit there shaking,

I will not let myself
be frozen.

Will not sit there
idling with clammy hands,

will not beat unholy
war chants into my steering wheel,

will not call out
profanities as I drive away.

If I see them again,

I will not punch or
kick.

I will not decapitate
or castrate,

will not make violent
threats of persecution or incarceration,

will not draw hidden weapons
from purses, pockets, socks,

I will not cry.

If I see them again, undressing
me with x-ray eyes,

if I walk through the
parking lot, the alley, the bar

with crawling skin, I
will not hide.

Will not turn my fear
into shame,

will not question my
right to safety,

will not think about
the time, my clothing, the level of light.

If I see them again, I
will not drown in emotion,

will not convince
myself that "dirty"

is a parasite under my skin.

will not turn my anger inward

I will not own their
ugly.

If I see them again,

groceries or drink or
keys in hand,

I will turn to look
them in the eyes.

I will take a breath,

and tell them a
Buddhist nun once told me

the best way to keep
ants out of my kitchen

is to spread baby
powder wherever they come in,

so I have baby powder
lining the wall in my kitchen

because I believe in
this life too much

to be responsible for
pain.

If I see them again,

I will ask them where
in their body their privilege swells.

I will ask them if the beat
in their ears is their heartbeat or mine.

I will remind them

that when we hold
seashells to our ears, we call our heartbeat the sea

and perhaps, the air
surrounding us is a giant shell

to let us listen to the
heartbeats of those we would never stop to hear.

I will ask them if they
have felt the noose of fear around their neck.

I will ask them if they
have heard the breaking of their own soul

felt it oozing from their
chest, like grape jelly seeping from a cracked jar,

slow, sticky, and cold
as death;

I will ask them if they felt this life leaving
them,

and if they wondered
how they could possibly stand, broken,

knowing the people who
broke them breathe the same air,

feel the same sun,

count the same stars in
the same damn summer sky.

If I see them again,

I will ask them if some
days,

sharing a galaxy with hatred

suffocates them, too.

I will ask them quietly
if they have a sister.

I will ask them again,
louder, if they have a

mother, a grandmother,
a great-grandmother, an aunt, a daughter,

a girlfriend, if they
dream of having a wife or a daughter,

and if they do,

I will ask them to
picture their girlfriend, their mother as me.

I will ask them to
picture their someday daughter,

to see her, pure and
beautiful,

and to picture her with
my face.

If I see them again, I
will ask them if they have heard

the sound of their own
head cracking against a wall.

If they have heard the
sound of whispered hate masquerading as shabbily dressed love and attention,

I will ask them if they
have felt the shroud of ugliness covering their bodies

I will ask them to
describe the texture, color, and smell of shame,

and when they cannot, I
will want to introduce them, intimately,

just so they can feel
her weight.

If I see them again, I
will yell random facts

until I find the one
that strikes a chord on the strings of their hearts:

I will ask them if
they, too, have double jointed thumbs,

if celery also makes
their mouth numb

if they make wishes on
hay trucks, lady bugs, stars,

I'll tell them I wish
on the 3 stars in the belt of Orion,

just because they're
the ones I can always find,

that I'm allergic to
bees, that I love trees and swings and

praying to things I
don't believe in and cannot see...

and when I find the one
thing in common between him and me,

I'll make my voice
quiet

like lightning under
the thunder of my heart.

I'll back up slowly -
return to the start -

Did you know, I'll ask
them, that I have baby powder on the floor of my kitchen?
A Buddhist nun told me it's
the best way of keeping ants away
without killing them.

1 comment:

About Me

"My continuing passion is to part a curtain,
that invisible shadow that falls between people,
the veil of indifference to each other's presence,
each other's wonder, each other's human plight."
Eudora Welty